


i'm caught up in the rapture, it's the morning after

by Wolfarella



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfarella/pseuds/Wolfarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys and Jack have been hooking up pretty regularly, but afterwards, Jack tends to kick him out more often than not. This time, however, he wakes up with a little something else on his mind....</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm caught up in the rapture, it's the morning after

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by a prompt over at [OTP Prompts](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: _Imagine your OTP cuddling the morning after sex. Person A gets up to gather their clothes and person B, turned on by A’s bare body as they stretch and bend over to pick up clothes, starts to idly masturbate. A’s reaction is up to you._
> 
> featuring Jack being Jack, and what looks like a casual sexual relationship but is actually more if you squint and read between the lines

Jack doesn’t do cuddling. Rhys just counts himself lucky that he’s even permitted to stay the whole night these days, considering how Jack used to kick him out when they’d first started hooking up. Literally. He would bodily kick Rhys out of the bed in the middle of the night, tell him not to let the door hit him where the good lord split him, and then roll over and start snoring. Rhys doesn’t consider himself a coward or anything, come on, but he’d never felt quite up to sticking around and seeing how Jack reacted to finding out that he hadn’t listened to him.

Now Jack usually waits until morning to kick him out. The first time it’d happened, he’d caught sight of Rhys and laughed uproariously before asking, “The hell you still doing here?” To which Rhys had snarked back that Jack’s big swanky bed was just more comfortable than his and that he shouldn’t take it personally. That had earned him a scowl, and Jack ignored his calls for at least a week to prove a point. 

Most mornings, Rhys gets a dramatic yawn followed by something like, “I’m sure you got places to be, kiddo. Don’t let me keep you,” which, of course, translates to, _Time to get the fuck out_. But sometimes Jack’ll instead say something like, “You could have at least made yourself useful and gotten me some coffee,” which means Jack doesn’t mind if he sticks around, he’s just too proud to say it. 

Rhys can’t ever guess the sort of response he’ll get.

And this morning? Jack’s quiet. 

Rhys glances at him. He’s on his back, one hand resting under his head and the other scratching absentmindedly at his bare stomach, the sheet just barely covering him. His eyes flicker briefly towards Rhys but he says nothing — just returns to blinking languidly up at the ceiling. Rhys figures he’s probably trying to come up with a fresh way to tell him to go, something more creative than usual. He loves to one-up himself, that Handsome Jack.  

Deciding that he doesn’t want to let Jack have the satisfaction this time, Rhys sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, putting his back to Jack. He stretches his arms over his head, flexing his mechanical one, and then he rolls his shoulders and heaves a soft, sleepy sigh. His body aches and he’s sore in places the human body shouldn’t be able to get sore in, but he’s used to it by now. Likes it, even, in a weird sort of way. 

Jack’s eyes bore into him. They’re practically drilling holes into his skin. 

He hunches forward to fish his pants out of the mess of clothes on the floor, shoving his feet into them unceremoniously and tugging them up to his knees. He tosses a look over his shoulder, laughing a little. “You owe me a new pair of pants by the way, _Impatient_ Jack. Zippers are meant to be unzipped, you know — they’re not just fashion accessories that you tear open like you’re some kind of animal.”  

Jack grunts noncommittally at him. 

Grinning to himself, Rhys stands and pulls his pants the rest of the way up, letting them sit loosely on his hips because the fly is a lost cause. (Thanks for that, Jack.) He bends and grabs his shirt, pulls it on before he realizes it’s inside-out, and shrugs it off to right it with a muttered curse. As he’s slipping his arms back into the sleeves, he turns to the bed and hesitates. 

There’s a gleam in Jack’s eyes as he watches Rhys, and his hand is now moving under the sheet, fingers so obviously wrapped around himself. The movement is slow and subtle, idle squeezing and stroking, like he's not even thinking about it. But Rhys knows Jack — everything Jack does is calculated. He wants to see Rhys’ reaction.

Desire ripples through Rhys, and another laugh leaves him — this one a little surprised. 

“Leaving so soon, pumpkin?” Jack’s voice is rough, like sandpaper, husky from sleep. Rhys is pretty sure the sound makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Oh, _now_ you want me to stay? What’s the occasion?” Rhys asks, too cheeky for his own good. 

“Well, this morning wood ain’t gonna take care of itself, now is it?” 

“I don’t know. I might have places to be.”

“Fine, whatever, suit yourself. I don’t care.” 

Jack looks away from him, turning his head so he can focus on what he’s doing. His other hand comes out from where it’d been tucked under his head and he grabs the sheet, pulling it off of him completely and giving Rhys a full view. 

And yeah, Rhys totally stares. Watches as Jack lazily strokes himself to his full length, watches as he uses his thumb to smooth a bead of pre-come around the swollen head. The sight sends heat spreading through Rhys, filling him with fire. 

He quickly tears his arms out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor, and he falls back into bed, crawling towards Jack. “No, see — I was only saying that because that’s what you say to me sometimes. It was a joke. A really clever one, actually. You must not be awake enough to appreciate it.”

“Clever? Now _that_ ’s funny — that you think you could ever apply that word to yourself. I ever tell you how crappy your jokes are?” 

“Eh, I usually pretend not to hear you when you do.” 

“And here I thought you were just stupid.”

“Vaughn thinks I’m funny.”

“God, I’m already regretting letting you stay. Stop talking or get out.” 

Jack gives Rhys a pointed look, but Rhys is already on it. He moves over Jack, fitting himself easily between Jack’s legs and sliding down so that he’s level with Jack’s cock. Jack folds his hands beneath his head again and casually relaxes back to watch, his mismatched eyes dark and half-lidded and full of the kind of want he’ll never admit to. You learn how to read this sort of thing in body language when you’re with someone like him. 

After spitting into his hand, Rhys flashes a quick grin up at him and wraps his fingers around Jack’s cock. He squeezes and gives a slow stroke upwards, and he opens his mouth to speak.

Jack cuts him off. “I don’t need all this pomp and ceremony, kitten. Just get to sucking.”

“Who said anything about sucking?” Rhys twists his hand on another upstroke, then squeezes tighter as he slides back down to the base. He feels rewarded when Jack takes in a deep, level breath like he’s trying to keep himself under control.

“Well, it’s what you’re good at — thought you might wanna play to your strengths or something.” 

“I _am_ good at it.” 

“And if you don’t start doing it soon, you’re never sleeping in this — what’d you call it? — ‘swanky’ bed again.” 

Rhys laughs, gives Jack a brazen little wink, and before Jack can say anything about it, he takes Jack into his mouth. He shapes his lips around the tip of his cock and swirls his tongue around it like he’s savoring a piece of candy. Jack tastes faintly like sweat and something else, something heady and thick, but it’s familiar, and Rhys hums a little, contented. 

While he keeps his hand working up and down in even strokes, his tongue plays at the slit, lapping up the pre-come oozing from it. He pulls Jack out of his mouth again and licks a stripe down his shaft, before mouthing his way back up, getting it nice and slick with his spit. He’s sure to make the most out of it— Jack likes it sloppy and wet. 

When he sucks the head of Jack’s cock back into his mouth, Jack murmurs a thick, “Atta boy.” 

Flattening his tongue, Rhys starts to swallow him down. Halfway he stops and comes back up, and just as Jack’s cock comes close to leaving his mouth, he swallows it again. He starts slow, gradually taking more of Jack every time his head bobs down, but then one of Jack’s hands settles on the back of his head. He knows that Jack means it as a warning, but he likes to think of it as more of a friendly bit of encouragement. 

He picks up the pace. Lets his eyes flutter closed as he sucks, hollowing his cheeks. And as much as he likes making Jack wait, making him impatient, he lets the pressure on his head push him down — he takes every inch of Jack, stopping only when his nose presses against the soft, dark curls at the base. As he moves back up, still sucking, he makes a lot of embarrassingly wet noises, but it gets him the sort of reaction he craves. 

A rasp of a moan stirs in Jack’s chest. “It’s like your throat was made for this, princess.”

He’s apparently more willing to dole out the acclaim first thing in the morning. And Rhys is all too happy to hear it. His own dick’s growing harder and harder by the second, and he rolls his hips slightly, grinding against the mattress for some much needed friction. He pulls back with a grin, kissing tenderly at the shining, spongy head as it leaves his mouth.

“Come on,” Jack urges on a growl. His fingers twist into Rhys’ hair, nails biting at his scalp. And when Rhys swallows him again, taking his full length with a low hum, Jack sighs and says, “Good,” in a way that sends shivers down Rhys’ spine. 

When Jack’s hips start lifting up off of the mattress to meet Rhys’ movements, Rhys has to brace a hand on his thigh to try and maintain at least a little control. Jack makes these sweet little noises though, low and breathy, and it’s hard to hold it against him as he fucks up into Rhys’ mouth without a care in the world. Rhys just wants to please him, wants to hear those noises forever. He knows better, but likes to think he’s the only one who’s ever gotten to witness them. 

Suddenly, Jack’s using his grip on Rhys’ hair to pull him off of him. His cock comes out of Rhys’ mouth with an almost comical-sounding pop, and a string of spit trails from it to Rhys’ lips. Jack’s eyes glint, but he doesn’t say anything. He just angles his hips a little and starts pumping his dick with a fist, rough and quick, and Rhys knows what he wants.

He swoops down to kiss at Jack’s heavy balls, mouthing at the sensitive skin almost lovingly. He noses them, practically nuzzles them, and Jack groans. It turns into a string of curses when Rhys licks and pulls one into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth even as he sucks. The first time he’d done this, unprompted, Jack had lost it — come to think of it, that was the first time he hadn’t kicked Rhys out until morning. 

Then Jack’s tugging him up again and he grunts out, “Open up for me.” 

And how can Rhys deny him when his voice sounds like that? When there’s a deep red flush sweeping across Jack’s chest and sweat gleaming on his brow? Grinning, Rhys opens his mouth. Maybe he even waggles his tongue a little — if he can’t have fun with it, what’s the point? 

Jack curses some more. He presses the head of his cock right up to Rhys’ bottom lip, taking aim, and when he comes, he holds his breath and goes almost completely still, save for his pumping hand. It shoots out in spurts, most of it hitting its target and landing in Rhys’ mouth, but some lands on his chin, and the sight makes Jack moan. 

His body shudders with the final waves of his climax, and with his cock still in hand, he runs the tip of it along Rhys’ lips, tracing his mouth like he’s applying lipstick to him. He sighs. Then snorts unattractively. “It’s disgusting how pretty you are, cupcake.”

Rhys’ only response to that is to very obviously swallow what’s in his mouth. Then he even shows it off to Jack, lets him know it’s all gone by sticking his tongue out. It earns him a laugh, an exhausted little chuckle. 

“Get up here,” Jack says, dragging him up by the hair. 

Rhys stretches out beside Jack, who props himself on an elbow so he can look down at him. He uses his thumb to wipe away the come that’d landed on Rhys’ chin, and before Rhys can make the smartassed remark he really wants to, Jack shoves his thumb into his mouth. Rhys obediently sucks it off, and then spends a good few minutes cleaning each and every one of Jack’s fingers, his eyes locked on Jack’s while he does so. 

“Glad I stuck around?” he asks somewhat hoarsely.

“If you don’t wipe that shit-eating grin off your dumb face, I’m kicking you out. Actually….” Jack glances down at the bulge in Rhys’ pants, a wicked grin coming to his face. He palms Rhys’ cock roughly through the material and Rhys wriggles a little under his touch. “If you don’t wipe that shit-eating grin off your dumb face, kiddo, babe, light of my _life_ , I’m gonna bring you right to the very edge, I’m gonna bring you _so_ close… and _then_ I’m gonna kick ya out.” 

Rhys opens his mouth to retort, but Jack squeezes him so hard he sees stars, and a loud, wanton moan tears out of Rhys. 

“That’s what I thought,” Jack whispers. 

He grabs a hold of the waistband and yanks Rhys’ pants down — they go easily enough without any zipper to hold them up (thanks again for that, Jack) — and Rhys’ freed cock settles against his stomach, leaking and desperate for attention. Jack brings a hand up to Rhys’ mouth, and Rhys is so well-trained that he spits into it without needing to be told to. 

Jack murmurs a little praise at that and takes Rhys’ dick into his hand instantly, spreading the saliva over it with a few quick sweeps of his hand. He’s relentless — starts jerking Rhys off like it’s some kind of carnival game and there’s a big prize at the end — and Rhys’ head lolls back against the pillow. Things aren’t usually gentle with him, but you don’t come to Handsome Jack for gentleness. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jack.” His voice cracks immaturely. He prays Jack will forget to tease him for it later. 

“What?” 

Rhys writhes pathetically, hips stuttering as he tries to thrust up into Jack’s aggressive strokes. 

“I can’t quite hear you there, Rhysie boy. Speak up. What do you want?” 

Rhys tries to talk, but Jack squeezes him again at that instant. His words get choked off.

“Hah, you know, it’s kinda funny that I normally can’t get you to shut the hell up and yet, here we are,” Jack says. And he’s so very pleased with himself, so smug about all of this, but his touch is _electric_ and Rhys thinks, fuck it, let the man be arrogant. He’s earned it. 

“Keep going,” Rhys manages, breathless and squirming, unable to get a good foothold on the smooth sheets beneath him. 

“And?”

“And — fuckin’ make me come.” 

Jack doesn’t reply to this, but he does suddenly come to a halt. His hand dips down so he can both cup Rhys’ balls and clutch him by the base of his cock at the same time, squeezing them together. Rhys arches against the mattress. He all but whines at the loss of movement. To that, Jack presses down, hard. 

Rhys moans. “ _Please_ ,” he begs. 

“There we go,” Jack says, tender in a mocking way. 

As he starts stroking again, fingers warm and tight and slick with spit and pre-come, Rhys laughs breathlessly, already so, so close. On each upstroke, Jack swipes his thumb across the head of his cock, and it’s such a light, fleeting touch in contrast to the hard pumps that it makes Rhys tremble. 

He comes without warning. He cries out and bucks his hips, and Jack doesn’t stop working his cock until he’s completely empty, milking him for all he’s worth. He collapses with a shaky moan and quivers, reaching down to try and push Jack’s arm away, but Jack tortures him for a few moments longer before he finally reclaims his hand.

While most of Rhys’ come landed on his stomach and chest, Jack licks the rest of it from his knuckles. Rhys swears that if he wasn’t feeling so sensitive and spent, the sight alone would give him another raging hard-on — he’ll have to remember the mental image the next time Jack’s too busy with work to see him. Jack leans over Rhys and seeks out Rhys’ abandoned shirt, using it to mop up the mess on Rhys’ stomach. 

“I only have the one shirt, man, come on,” Rhys murmurs. 

“Sounds like a personal problem, I gotta be honest.” 

Jack balls up the garment and tosses it over the bed, before he reclines back against the pillows, stretching an arm above his head and relaxing. Rhys reaches down to tuck himself into his pants, lifting his hips to pull them back up, and he casts a sideways look at Jack. His eyes are closed, but feels Rhys eyes on him because he sighs like he’s annoyed.

“No, you don’t have to leave. Yet.” 

“When —?”

“You keep talking and you’re outta here. Let me go back to sleep.” 

Rhys falls silent, satisfied with himself. This is new. Jack might not do cuddling, but hey! Progress, Rhys thinks. He grabs the sheet Jack had previously tossed off, and he pulls it over the both of them, settling at Jack’s side and biting back a yawn. He feels Jack watching him, but when he glances up, Jack’s eyes are closed.

“Same goes for you staring at me like a creepy little weirdo,” Jack says, again feeling him watching him. “Close your eyes and lay down or get the hell out, you got that, pumpkin?”

“Yeah, sure. You still owe me a new pair of pants.” 

“ _Rhys_.”

“Okay, okay.” 


End file.
